I am from the farm dans la belle province, the land, frozen, snowed-in, snow fences and snowmelt. I am English with French subtitles.
I am stump fences and chokecherries, red maples and syrup, pancakes on Shove Tuesday.
I am potato fields, the 5th line, arrêt/stop. Barn cats and farm dogs, cow pies and puffballs in the pasture, the rushing creek & rickety log bridge.
I am small town where everyone knows your name, Sunday school, camp meetings, holy rollers and reticent Anglicans. I am low church with no candles; the pump organ belting out hymns, flies buzzing in the stained glass windows, the shadows between the pews, the kneeling bench with no cushion, creaking floor boards, dry wafers and communion wine on my knees.
I am the ploughed earth, the soaring pines, lilacs and mock orange.
I am Canada geese calling north in a great V overhead. I am Alice Munro, Margaret Atwood, Leonard Cohen and the CBC on the transistor radio.
I am the river, the chutes, the dam and the mill at Portage du Fort, the smell of progress and Rene Lévesque. I am from Diefenbaker and the cold war, bomb shelters and paranoia.
I am red geraniums and dust, the sideline, tractors and the tin mailbox, letters and library books on rural route two.
I am highway eight, the truck with taillights tied on with binder twine, live chickens in crates for Kosher butchers in Montreal.
I am the anvil, the power take off, the rusty wheelbarrow and the voice of immigrant farm workers in the darkest hour, thunder and lightning on a humid night.
I am small, unseen, unheard.